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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24014644">The Ceremony of Innocence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness'>1f_this_be_madness</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Affection, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale acts like he's fine being locked down but is he really?, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Baking, Banter, Books, Boredom, COVID-19, Camaraderie, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crushes, Crying, Disney References, Drinking &amp; Talking, Epic Friendship, Flirting, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Frustration, Fussy Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, I want these dorks to hug so bad, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Inspired by a Queen Song, Kind of - they're both such idiots, Light Angst, Locked In, Loneliness, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, News Media, Phone Calls &amp; Telephones, Poetry, Post-Canon, References to Depression, References to Shakespeare, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Stress Baking, Swearing, Upsetting memories - but it's okay now, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), of a sort, reciting poetry, self-care, social distancing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:47:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24014644</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In a locked down situation, it can be very difficult to be alone. Especially if one is used to turning up anytime, anyplace, anywhere -literally- to see a friend. A compatriot, equal in the world of humanity. Aziraphale had told Crowley to stay away, to follow the rules, as that is best in these uncertain times - for both of them. It would be quite an inconvenience for either to become ill and potentially to discorporate; because, let's face it - no one on either of their sides is likely to give any amount of aid. Not even a smidgen.</p><p>And Crowley understands all that.</p><p>But he is also bored. <i>So</i> bored. Completely, utterly, ineffably, undeniably, incredibly, absolutely out of his mind <i>bored.</i></p><p>And of course he's got a solution, second only to the genius plan he had come up with to wear sunglasses as a camoflauging agent for so many years - after all, he used to be a snake. And snakes can slither into a multitude of places.</p><p>(Or, after their initial telephonic correspondence during lockdown, Crowley has decided he simply cannot abide being stuck. In his flat. <i>ALONE.</i>)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. This Is A Tricky Situation...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! This piece is sort of written as a companion to a video about Aziraphale and Crowley in lockdown, written by Neil Gaiman and performed by David Tennant and Michael Sheen. My thanks to all of them. Here's the link to the video on YouTube, I would suggest a watch/listen, it's amazing: https://youtu.be/quSXoj8Kob0</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It isn't the best idea, really. Isn't even a mildly good one. Of course, over the millennia Crowley has gotten very good at having good ideas and cloaking them in enough apparent demonic intent as to make miracles appear as wiles, and the reverse is true for Aziraphale, he is sure.</p><p>But this time there is no way to spin his choice to turn himself into a snake and sneak across London  in order to see Aziraphale as anything other than pure desperation and a need to see his oldest friend. His only friend. </p><p>Come off it, in this lockdown Crowley is so bloody BORED. There is nothing to do; he meant it when he said to Aziraphale on the phone that he hadn't the heart to go out and do any sort of tempting or otherwise torment an already-panicking global population. Any more than the sensationalist riotous fear-mongering news media has already done and continues to do. Daily.</p><p>If Crowley has to hear one more iteration of "We're all in this together, but here are the newest numbers on COVID-19, and also we don't have a bloody clue what this virus actually does to the body; some people present with symptoms, others don't" or a speculating article on supposed facts versus fear that uses the most terrifying language imaginable, he is going to put his foot through his --admittedly rather large and incredibly thin, most impractical as Aziraphale would tell him-- television set.</p><p>Which is another reason the demon would be more than happy to get to and hunker down in Aziraphale's bookshop to spend time with him. His counterpart has never been enamoured enough with TV to have a set in his home. Oh, he's fascinated by the novelty of it, sure, and was all-too-excited to find himself on a set in America during the almost-Apocalypse, but the most modern piece of technology Crowley has seen in his angel's presence is a record player. Oh, and a rotary phone. </p><p>Honestly, he's lucky the angel has got an oven and is excited enough about cooking to use it. Crowley cannot wait to see Aziraphale covered in a dusting of flour and beaming all over his portly face about some delicious recipe for Bundt cake or the like. He really is going to bring some alcohol, the demon has decided, jerking his dark coat straight and shuffling his scaly not-shoes as he runs a hand through his hair and goes to his liquor cabinet. </p><p>There has to be something here that pairs well with cake....</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Greetings my dears!</p><p>After the treat of the video featuring Aziraphale and Crowley on the 30th anniversary of Good Omens' initial publication, and because I'm going slightly mad in lockdown, I wanted to try writing about these ineffable friends. This is my second sojourn into writing about them, and I truly enjoy it :)</p><p>I hope my discussion of the news media isn't offensive; I am honestly just tired of how this crisis is being represented. However, I DO NOT advocate breaking lockdown, we are all humans after all, and have no intervention to miraculously assist us if we needlessly risk ourselves or our loved ones. Stay safe, be well, and please take care of yourselves. Much love xx</p><p>Comments, as always, are appreciated &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I've Only Got Myself to Blame</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aziraphale worries</p><p>References made to depression below</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Oh, dear, Aziraphale fretted. He's still fretting, no matter how much he claims to be enjoying lockdown. It's true, on the whole; he really is so happy to do uninterrupted reading and not have any customers at all, but he also feels a twinge when recognition of that joy fills him. He shouldn't be so happy about this; people are ill and frightened. And he really does feel for them all, these poor humans cut off from their loved ones, the healthcare workers tirelessly providing care and showing the utmost grace of humanity in their every action. It warms him, makes the angel's wings flutter with joy. Yet he feels something twist inside him too, for none of this is his doing at all.</p><p>Just as Crowley said none of this had aught to do with him, and he hasn't the heart to cause any more strife or do any sort of wile in the midst of this crisis, Aziraphale knows he can provide no better kindness or decency than people are doing by themselves. Of course, he can ply however many young men burst in attempting to rob him with cake and lectures on safety, but what does that do in comparison, really? At least before this outbreak he could have a chat with Crowley, sit together on a park bench and toss bread to the ducks. </p><p>Now they'd have to stand one on either side of such a bench, except for the simple fact they aren't allowed out. Aziraphale, in particular, with the appearance of his corporeal form, would probably seem old enough to be one of the people most easily affected. The angel could find it in himself to be affronted--he is far more ancient than anyone alive could possibly know, save Crowley--but he is pleased that England seems to be looking out for its citizens. As a country, despite the scrambling, it's doing its best.</p><p>He just misses Crowley, that is all. As Aziraphale bends and pulls out a freshly baked cake from his little oven, the blast of heat, though nothing close to hellfire by any means, causes him to recall the place he'd taken for his friend, to save him. As Crowley had done the same. They hadn't really talked much about that, but it had bonded them, the angel felt; he still feels that to be so. Just as much as being equals on opposite sides for six thousand years. Maybe more, by recognition of the fact they are on their own side, together.</p><p>He'd missed Crowley before making that phone call, and thought the call would cheer them both up. It had, during its course, but by the end Aziraphale was fairly certain Crowley was actually going to fall asleep and stay that way until July. Which would be fine, except that the angel is concerned for his demon's mental state. When Crowley let slip he'd slept for a century...after they had stopped speaking... Aziraphale has no pretensions to being so important an aspect of his demon's life as to have an argument with him put Crowley into a form of depression, but somehow he'd gotten afraid he had. Crowley said sleeping was fun, but his expression and body language hadn't matched up with the drollity of the comment, and Aziraphale finds himself clutching his cake pan convulsively and wishing he'd accepted the offer of socially-acceptable distance between them in his bookshop, and Crowley bringing a drink. </p><p>Clutching the edges of the pan hard enough to make his hand muscles twinge with a modicum of pain, the angel totters over to his table and sits down. That's it, then. He has got to call, or something. </p><p>He is worried about Crowley.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't pretend to know exactly why Crowley slept for a hundred years; in the book it's less explicitly stated, but I do believe it's possible he suffered the demonic equivalent to depression. Poor Aziraphale worrying for him, but it will be all right - though of course I've included angst, typical me</p><p>Comments appreciated &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. It's Just a Simple Fact of Life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's a bit of a pickle, trying to find a place to carry one's transformed bottle of alcohol that one is carrying on one's serpentine back to drink together by breaking the technical curfew as well as the charge for only people who are allowed to be close together physically are those who live together as a family. </p><p>Oh hang it all, Aziraphale is family, Crowley thinks grumpily before he gets down onto his belly, transforming into his snake self and slithering out his flat and down the side of the building to find a way across the whole of London to Soho. Why he thought this was not entirely a bad idea, he doesn't know. </p><p>People may not notice a burning bookshop in Soho - snake Crowley cannot repress a shudder through his coils as he recalls that greasy smoke and the horrible sound and sight of Aziraphale's burning books - a conflagration negated by Adam Young, mercifully, but the initial memory is seared in the demon's head as surely as every tome in the shop was seared to a crisp by the time he left. Bastards had killed his best friend. Nothing can ever negate the horror Crowley felt at that; the utter, complete loss. Which is why he's throwing caution to the winds this time, he thinks. Well, again, as he had run full-bore into the bookshop as it burned. This is a lesser fear by far, because if somehow anything happened to Aziraphale after tonight, well, it'll likely happen to Crowley too. </p><p>Best case scenario, it's nothing and they're fine. Worst case scenario they lose their bodies together and will find something new. But either way, they will be together doing it - and THAT keeps Crowley slithering between cobblestones and dodging dogs and tyres and the very few pedestrians who must have important reasons to be out and about - the demon hisses at them in preparation to strike, hopes that will send 'em all packing back inside. </p><p>He doesn't want to cause anyone an infection, especially after he told Aziraphale he hadn't the heart to torment. Which is the bloody truth. Crowley cannot stand seeing and learning what is going on; he had honestly, legitimately cried watching doctors unable to hug their children upon coming off shift. There had been a video of a doctor in the Middle East that had gone viral, as the humans called it - incredibly unfortunate choice of words in this particular situation, well done people, thought Crowley - and the demon had bawled almost as much as the doctor himself. His poor son. It has always been about kids for Crowley. Do anything you like with a demon, an adult, but the very instant anyone causes pain to a child... What a monster they are. </p><p>Single-minded in his snake form, the demon is nearly blinded by the fury he feels at that thought, and strives to focus more fiercely upon the road. He's going to make it to see Aziraphale tonight.</p><p>Who needs tomorrow if they have this?</p><p>***</p><p>Aziraphale is dithering.</p><p>He's cut up his newest concoction and plans to carefully pack up pieces, as he has done with previous cakes. Which he has been delivering via small miracle to people that need a pickup. He has opened his mind to hear the pleas of humanity nearby; only in London so far, because he can get his cakes to people in and around Soho. Hospital workers, kids trying to finish school, harried parents, workers out of jobs. He has sent all the cakes not given to youngsters attempting to steal his cash box out and plans to send this one as well, but it smells so good...and honestly, having made a devil's food cake - he chuckles at his bit of cheek - he wants to send at least some of it on to Crowley in his flat. An apology for not accepting the other's offer to come to his.</p><p>As he goes over and mutters about getting cake to Crowley, he feels a tickle rising along his spine. Hears a slight creak on or under the floor. Not even necessarily audible for humans, but he has known this other being so long as to be instantly aware whenever he enters the room, or comes into the area. Without needing to turn, feeling a presence behind him, as familiar as the clothes he's wearing or every book in this shop: "Crowley, dear, we talked about this. No one should be breaking the lockdown, not even us!" The angel crosses his arms over his waistcoat disapprovingly as he does turn now, though he is working as hard as he possibly can not to beam at Crowley. That, or fling himself across the space between them - two-metre length be damned, blessed, oh dear - and wrap the dear stubborn demon in a hug. Oh, how lovely it is to see him, though Aziraphale says again "I told you not to come, Crowley."</p><p>Crowley, who stands in the centre of the room in human form again, having just transformed himself after slithering through an impossibly small hole "Oh I know, angel," he groans, flinging his body backwards onto Aziraphale's couch after placing the decanter of drink down on the table beside the cake plate carefully, having magicked himself up a pair of gloves. "...I just couldn't bloody stand it anymore. How sad would it actually be for me to set an alarm for July and sleep away the next two months? And besides, that cake smells scrumptious!" He smacks his lips, eyes glittering without his sunglasses obscuring them for once, as he'd not been wearing them for all of quarantine and thus forgot to put them on when going out. He stretches his lean lithe form along the sofa, careful still to remain at a safe distance. He raises both eyebrows. Knows exactly how to smooth things over, and uses his colourful idiomatic form of speaking to do it, clever devil that he is: "I'd absolutely die to try some, Aziraphale."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well, these dorks are now physically together again :D</p><p>Aziraphale's appreciation for the healthcare workers is mine as well, I sincerely thank you all for what you do for us &lt;3</p><p>The video about the doctor and his son is one I saw on my local news - I wish I could recall the specific country it was from, but no matter where, it broke my heart a bit even as I remain so impressed by what these people are doing, what they're sacrificing to keep us all as safe as possible. Hang in there!</p><p>Comments appreciated &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. That Happens to Everyone...,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale sighs a little at the hopeful, wheedling expression in those red-gold and yellow eyes, that he really finds captivating - no, come now, snap out of it, he's a demon - but he's MY demon, and we're on our own side! We always have been! The angel protests to himself. It remains exhausting, this niggling little surety that it isn't <i>right,</i> this, his fondness for Crowley. But, well. What does it say when one's own brain messes one about the most? Still Aziraphale cannot get a moment's peace.</p><p>But here Crowley is, wearing gloves as he's pouring drinks, staying a duo of metres apart and pushing the glass he had filled across the low table to Aziraphale. Hadn't even bothered to wait for a reply after asking "Fancy a drink, angel?" </p><p>Aziraphale is certain the trembling of his hands gave away the game, and he gulps the offered alcohol in attempt to steady his body and his nerves. "Oh Crowley, this is madness," he gasps, cutting two slices of cake and placing them on plates, holding one out to his demonic friend. "...You must realise that."</p><p>Crowley smacks his lips and lifts his plate in a cheersing motion after accepting it from the angel, gloved hand briefly cupping his friend's to soothe. "Thank you, angel," he says sincerely, and continues on "...and this may seem mad, but it really is all right, you know. The pair of us being together here, I mean. We haven't been round any other humans, save for you with your attempted burglary boys" the demon rolls his eyes  "But we're also ineffable as you like pointing out." Shifting a little on the sofa to face the angel as he takes a big bite of cake. "Ooh," he groans in appreciation over the chocolate. Isn't typically much for eating food, but this is different. Aziraphale had baked it. So the demon makes an exception and is right glad to do so as he hisses out "That's good!" Deeply, and his friend blushes deep red, eyes flickering about .</p><p>"Oh, go on," the angel murmurs, looking down as he takes a dainty bite of his creation - though he has to admit it isn't bad, he's gotten the hang of baking these past weeks - yet still. "I am no baker," Aziraphale protests. "Honestly, Crowley."</p><p>Something quiets in the demon's face, a gentle look fills his eyes, and Aziraphale actually sees because he isn't wearing those confounded glasses for once. "...I believe there are some people round London, particularly healthcare workers, who would beg to differ," his eyes twinkle as he lifts his glass and takes a drink. </p><p>Aziraphale sucks in a breath, not certain what to do. "You--you noticed?"</p><p>"Oh, of course I noticed! In a time like this any uptick in humour or positivity is Instantly noticable. It's a big deal, angel." Reaching out and pressing Aziraphale's arm with one gloved hand, Crowley adds with a little smile "...Why d'you think I didn't actually go through with sleeping and setting my alarm for July?"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well Crowley is staying as far apart as he can, but of course he can't stop himself from touching the angel - with gloves on, of course, staying safe as possible!</p><p>...I realize these notes could be taken as me getting up on a soapbox but this I don't intend. Just want everyone to stay safe (also to be perfectly honest I'm trying to justify staying in my house and make myself feel better because I do NOT enjoy this state of being at all).</p><p>Comments appreciated &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. You Win, You Lose</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale's heartbeat would bump faster, arhythmically, if he had a heartbeat like that of humanity. His body does have one, and that is some of the reason - so much of the reason, surely - that he finds himself needing to control his expressions around Crowley. At least superficially. It is one thing to be pleased by such a compliment, given from a demon, too, that is high praise indeed! Particularly this demon, whose own heart, so to speak, is decent and good, deep down. Caring for the children, yes, but also for humanity as a whole. Aziraphale should not be flushing as deep a colour as he is, however; nor should he feel all...fluttery, particularly as he isn't utilising his wings at present.</p><p>He has gotten used to such feelings in connection to his interactions with Crowley, and they aren't unsettling, more consistent, if not quite comfortable. He does feel warm and wonderful as the demon looks at him with such softness in his face as Crowley talks on what Aziraphale has done for people by sending out his baked goods. "Well, thank you, my dear," the angel murmurs. "I do hope every little bit helps. Some people cannot find anything to do, cannot think of ways to give back or keep their spirits up. I am inordinately lucky that I have discovered my own small way to do both." Nodding at Crowley and putting a hand over the other being's gloved one, the angel adds "I'm sure you could also come up with something of your own. You have such a giving heart, Crowley. It's remarkable, truly."</p><p>Crowley sighs. "There it is, make my day," he grumbles. "Yeah, I should definitely start sending out bottles of my best booze to everyone, get them totally drunk." He waves his hands around, dropping one with fingers outstretched, other grasping Aziraphale's and shaking it a bit. "Be serious, angel!"</p><p>Aziraphale smiles at Crowley's forceful exuberance. His particular nature never seems to change, no matter what he learns. "Well, they ARE at home," the angel now speaks thoughtfully, tapping his finger to his chin and sipping more of his own drink, letting out a cough that he counters with a pound upon his chest. "Dear, I do apologise. But, well. As we are here, at a little distance, sharing cake and drink - so others could. And speaking of being together,  surely we should read some poetry...," The angel heaves himself up and goes to his poetry shelf, dragging a fingertip along the spines. "--I thought we might could read some aloud. As a sort of calming agent."</p><p>Crowley snorts, facial expression fond. He leans slightly forward, putting down his drink. "Does reading poetry calm your scattered nerves, Aziraphale?"</p><p>Something in Crowley's face is serious, intent. Those bright eyes hold a depth, almost pleading for something, Aziraphale thinks perhaps an antidote to loneliness or boredom, a wish for the world to right itself again. And for him "Well, it, erm. Reading is a help, yes. It gives me leave to express my own emotions by finding common ground with human ones. Like this." Clearing his throat, the angel walks back and forth, taking a book of poems from his shelf and opening it.</p><p>"Here's one," he says. "It's called <i>'Interior'.</i></p><p>Her mind lives in a quiet room,<br/>
A narrow room, and tall<br/>
With little lamps to quench the gloom<br/>
And mottoes on the wall."
</p><p>"What's a mottoe? I dunno, what's a mottoe with you?" Crowley cracks, and his lips twitch, but at Aziraphale's stern glance he gestures for the other to continue reading. "Sorry, old joke. Go ahead, then."
</p><p>With a gracious nod, "Thank you," the angel says.</p><p>"There all the things are waxen neat<br/>
And set in decorous lines;<br/>
And there are posies, round and sweet,<br/>
And little, straightened vines."</p><p>Aziraphale looks up, his hand again trembling just a bit as he presses his lips together. This last stanza is what hits, what is cornering, in a way. He takes a deep breath to keep his voice from choking off into silence. 

</p><p>"Her mind lives tidily, apart<br/>
From cold and noise and pain,<br/>
And bolts the door against her heart,<br/>
Out wailing in the rain."
</p><p>He stops, and there is silence. Eventually Aziraphale shuffles, smooths and fusses with his waistcoat before doing his best to smile and sitting back down. Crowley expels a long, low whistle. "So, erm, that's it," says Aziraphale.</p><p>"That's a pit, innit?" Asks Crowley eventually. "You got any, ah, saucy limericks, or, I dunno, Shakespeare?"</p><p>Aziraphale's head shoots up and his eyes begin to brighten. "...You want me to read Shakespeare?"</p><p>"Hell, <i>I'll</i> read Shakespeare, don't think a thing that bloke wrote is as depressing in this time as what you just read to me." Up and striding to the shelves, Crowley extends his long arms to pull out other books. "Ah! Here goes, Shakespeare's Sonnets." He begins to flip through, plopping back down and refilling his and Aziraphale's drink. "Let's find something funny about love. Got to get the mood up a bit." Head bowed over the little book, for it is rather a thin volume, almost a pocket edition of the Sonnets, Crowley focuses and then calls out "Aha! Here it comes, angel, you ready?" Crowley leans back in his seat, entirely too pleased with whatever his choice is.</p><p>It makes Aziraphale smile and extend his hand. "Yes, Crowley, of course. And I'll endeavour to find a - more sprightly poem after you. Take it away."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The poem Aziraphale reads is one of my personal favourites, by Dorothy Parker. I think it's quite wonderful, really, and hope I transcribed it correctly as I did so from memory :) and Crowley made a Disney reference because I honestly couldn't help myself</p><p>Think Crowley actually has a space for the poem in his demonic heart, he's just out of sorts a bit. Wants to brighten the mood for the pair of them, if he can. So he's going to read love poetry, ooooh</p><p>Hope you're enjoying this, as of my thinking now there is one more chapter to go. </p><p>Comments appreciated &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. It's a Chance You Have to Take With Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Crowley first proclaims "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" and Aziraphale comes back with the oft quoted "Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day", then for admitting impediments, Crowley searches out a particular sonnet that describes his attempts to sleep that he'd told Aziraphale of.</p><p>"Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed," Crowley starts. "- sleeping isn't so terrible, Aziraphale, you should try it." He smirks as the angel huffs for him to be reasonable.</p><p>"Really, Crowley, what use would I have to sleep? I would surely miss something!"</p><p>"Well that is the good part about it sometimes, angel. Sometimes you want to get some sleep, but can't." The demon shakes his head and lifts his brows, peering closely at the sonnet with a slight shifting of his shoulders. "Right, let me start again.</p><p>"Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed<br/>
The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd;<br/>
But then begins a journey in my head<br/>
To work my mind when body's work's expir'd:<br/>
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--<br/>
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,<br/>
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,<br/>
Looking on darkness which the blind do see ..."</p><p>His voice grows soft and croaks a bit on these words, which precedes a "whoof!" Of breath before Crowley takes a deep drink from his cup, clearing his throat and continuing.</p><p>"... Save that my soul's imaginary sight<br/>
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,<br/>
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, - really think he ought to've put another word there, but what do I know? - Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.<br/>
Lo! Thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,<br/>
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find."</p><p>Pressing his thin lips together then and bowing his head slightly, Crowley's gaze catches Aziraphale's with something in it that makes the angel unable to look away. Those slitted pupils have never frightened him nor caused any unease, and now they are so huge and dark as to make the angel drown, a ridiculous notion, really, decides Aziraphale; one drowns in water, not in fire, and fire is the demon's domain....</p><p>But whatever the expression means, it is a welcome one. Aziraphale feels comfortable and special, as if Crowley has given him something of himself - in his friend's choice to come here in the first place; to eat and drink and be with Aziraphale even in this difficult situation, this tough time.</p><p>Yet here they are, still together, still upon their own side. Aziraphale feels, and can tell that his dear counterpart feels so too, incredibly grateful.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My thanks to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and to David Tennant and Michael Sheen.</p><p>Readers may see this as friendship or romantic love, whichever they feel. I personally see these two beings as both, not pinned down or confined to a simple single human expression of love. They are angels, after all - one just so happened to saunter vaguely downwards.</p><p>Sonnets referenced (and the one Crowley reads here) are as follows:<br/>Sonnet 130<br/>Sonnet 18<br/>Sonnet 116 mentioned obliquely<br/>And finally, the one Crowley recites in full is Sonnet 27</p><p>The chapter titles are lyrics from the (in my opinion) excellent Queen song entitled "It's A Hard Life", and the overall title of this work is from William Butler Yeats' poem "The Second Coming" written about the Easter Rising that took place in Ireland in 1919</p><p>I hope for good and better days ahead. I also hope you have enjoyed this, comments are welcome &lt;3</p><p>And lastly but most importantly, I've heard the death toll from the virus is incredibly high in the UK, so I send all my love and hope to people there. </p><p>Stay safe and be well</p>
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